Valentine's Day with a Superhero!
by Pandiichan
Summary: Valentine's Day with Captain, Tony, Bruce, Clint, and Thor! Short stories written from their point of view about the holiday. Composed in a reader-friendly way especially for Valentine's Day!


Valentine's Day with a Superhero

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AN: Random drabbles for Valentine's Day! Originally thought of doing it in the OC's and pairs from previous stories (Steve/Libby, Cori/Bruce, etc.) but that's no fun. In spirit of Singles' Awareness Day (of which I am celebrating) **I'm doing these drabbles from the point of view of the Avenger males so the reader can feel special :D.**

**These drabbles will NOT all be the same size.** Thor's is going to be _much_ shorter; I can tell you that with certainty. I can hardly think of anything for Steve, either :/. If I go past 12 AM whoever I'm working on – or have left to work on – will be shorter because I tried to get this in before midnight but I have a feeling I won't. If I'm late I don't want to be _that_ late.

As far as updating schedule (yes, I've been away. I know. I'm terrible.) I'm trying to think up a good oneshot for _We_ _Need to Quit Meeting Like This_, searching for motivation to continue _Romancing Captain Rogers_ (I know what I want to do and where I'm going, but the work just doesn't feel like "mine" because I'm using _Captain America: The First Avenger_ as a backbone, I guess :/), and hoping to reserve a day to update _Initiative: Romance_ because that oneshot needs to get done and is waaaaayyyy overdue T_T.

The mention of names, hair color, eye color, body type, or skin color will be mentioned as little as possible (if at all) for a chance to feel "into" the piece.

At any rate, enjoy! Happy Singles' Awareness Day (or Valentine's Day, you know, if you're lucky).

Not spell-checked due to the late hour.

* * *

**1. Tony**

It's actually annoying to have all of this money. Especially on a commercialized holiday like Valentine's Day. People _expect_ and _want_ lavish gifts on this sacred day of pink, white, and red, but "people" does not accurately describe an individual. It can't…literally. My girlfriend doesn't _like_ the shortcuts the stores offer.

Somehow, out of all the types and women I've dated, I ended up with an artistic woman who lived in a tiny apartment and saw nothing wrong with it. "It's cozy!" she said. She's one of those types who could be given a moldy, sodden cardboard box and find something amazing about it. I guess that's how I ended up with her…despite the media coverage, my problem with drinking, and the list of women I've wined and dined, she found something good in me.

Is she perfect with her genuine naiveté? No, but I'm not perfect either. And yet…she makes me feel like I am. It's the hokiest thing, but it's true. She's the reason for my dilemma on this day, the Day of Love.

On Valentine's Day _perfect_ boyfriends are _supposed_ to shower their women with gifts. And I, the great Tony Stark, am out of ideas. While she might admire the traditional ideas of a homemade breakfast, eating out at a fancy restaurant, or a stuffed bear to keep her company, I feel that it wouldn't mean what I really want it to.

So here I am, hiding in my impressive office and pretending to "work" while I scrounge for an idea. I've come up with a list of things I've promptly crossed out because they're clichés. What present do you get for the person who hates status symbols and the implications of materialism? On my desk sits several photos: one of me and Pepper, one of the team in the newly-finished Avengers Tower, and a sketch of me she gave me on my birthday.

It's breathtaking. Her talent is raw and undeniable; her style is light like her presence but solid and colorful like her wit and sense of humor. The picture me in the Iron Man suit with the faceplate up and it stops just below the arc reactor.

_For the man in the iron suit with a wonderful, glowing palladium heart!_ she'd written in her slanted and flowing style. A childish heart with lines surrounding it – rays of imaginary light, I presume – mark the end of her cursive signature.

Then…it hits me.

"JARVIS, how long until she gets home?"

"About two hours, sir. Or so she said earlier." he informs.

"That's enough time. I'll make it work." I said, throwing my pen down and abandoning the unhelpful list as I zipped off to the lab.

Sketching, cutting, wielding, shaping, chasing off Dummy, and self-testing filled the two-hour time window I had. I had something passable by the time JARVIS announced her arrival. "It's cold." I murmured, shivering slightly. Cold, but perfect. And perfectly cheesy.

An oil painting greeted me in the living room. It was painstakingly crafted, like all her pieces. In the backdrop of fading sun it looked even more striking. The picture was of me sitting in the kitchen at a decorated table boasting crab cakes, scotch, and a single rose. Anything after that was truncated due to the canvas size.

"Like it?" she beamed proudly, curled up and radiating the innocently-but-on-purpose sexual way she had. Her hair was in a low ponytail, high cheekbones surrounded by hair gradually escaping. She wore a Stark Solutions tee I'd given her after our first night together some months ago. Baggy pants generally shot the "little Iron Man" down like a system malfunction, but on her they somehow managed to look good. It fit her low-key nature and relaxed personality.

"It's awesome!" I state with sureness. "This day would be even better if I had real crab cakes. And, you know, you were naked."

"I _do_ like painting in the nude." she teases in the dirty mouth that scared the hell out of me when I first heard it. Yeah, she only _looks _innocent. Peel the layers away and they're a jaded, dark, brilliant, outright _seductress_ waiting inside. "But, unfortunately, paint stains and there are certain things I'd like to avoid being colored."

"Sweat and heat get rid of paint, right?"

"I don't know," she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "But I _do_ know you need to get rid of those crab cakes in the kitchen before they spoil."

She is _amazing_! The painting, as I soon discovered, was a hint at what waited for me in the kitchen. The long table was decorated like the picture – deep red cloth with pink accents and golden-rimmed plates filled with tiny cakes. A single glass of scotch sat beside a slim vase protecting a lone red rose. Shit…that was like two presents in one!

I only had one…

"Change of plans." I whispered to myself, glancing over my shoulder briefly to see her adrift in thought. "You're present's in here, too!" I called out, "I'll be offended if you don't enjoy it!"

She poked her head into the kitchen, oozing curiosity and wearing a look that was the parent of _what are you talking about?_ and _I was in the kitchen earlier, I saw nothing!_

"Tony!" she laughed, shaking her head. I'd discarded my tee and was standing in nothing but a pair of pants, a rose clutched between my teeth. My hands were perched on my hips in mock heroism as my arc reactor shined, swiftly-made stencil filtering the light in a heart shape.

I took the rose out of my mouth. "You gave me a painting and dinner, so I'm giving you a rose. And…you know, my heart." I muttered the last bit softly. Things like that were near impossible to speak. I wasn't use to saying them, but I meant them.

"I like my presents." she purred after her eyes swept over me in sensual evaluation. I chuckled as she closed the distance between us, hands gliding over my torso like a silken kiss. She cupped my arc reactor as best she could and pressed her lips to it before pressing her mouth to mine.

"Happy Valentine's Day." I smirked as she pulled away.

"Happy Valentine's Day." she returned, gazing at me in that dreamy way of hers.

* * *

**2. Bruce**

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god! It's not here yet! Why isn't it here?! Why the hell am I celebrating this holiday when I have The Other Guy?! This brings nothing but stress and nervousness and—_

"Is it here yet, JARVIS?" I almost whisper, hushing my own thoughts.

"Not yet, sir." replied the robot dutifully.

"But it will be here today, right?"

"Yes sir. So says the e-mail. It _did_ say it would take time, though." he reminded.

"I know, I know…" I raked my hands through messy curls. "Five months for the finished product." the e-mail was pretty easy to remember. Easy to remember _and _mortifying. I could've easily done what they offered, free of charge, but I was too nervous to do so. They were the alleged professionals and I couldn't bear to mess this up.

Not when it was my first holiday with her. Not when she seemed to be one of the only people _outside_ the tower who understood and accepted me. Her occupation was interesting, to say the least. She was a criminal psychologist for the longest time, working alongside the authorities to pinpoint and unravel basket cases news rooms begged for and people feared. After getting attacked and nearly killed, however, she found herself immersed in the world of alternative medicines.

Her anxiety, panic, and fear was so strong that standard medications couldn't always soothe it. Not one to gobble a handful of pills for her anxiety and near-agoraphobia, she trusted things like herbs and teas. I met her on two separate occasions, one as Bruce Banner, and one as the Hulk. As Bruce I received recommendations on teas; as Hulk I saved her life.

One of the men she'd helped put away – for a very long time, was my understanding. Her testimony helped convince the jury of psychiatric treatment – came back for revenge. I was lucky enough to be in the store when he burst in with a gun aimed at her head. It never occurred to me to wonder if he would kill her outright or just use her to escape the police. In situations like that I never thought…just changed.

That set us back a bit, but not for the reasons I first thought. Most of her fear and panic stemmed from being overpowered on that day. She came to fear things bigger and stronger than her, and situations in which she felt helpless. Hulk wasn't screamed at for his skin color or massive strength, but because he temporarily represented those horrible things (and, to a lesser degree, that man who'd wrecked her life).

"It's here, sir."

"Great!" I broke free of my reminiscing and restrained myself from jogging to the double doors of Stark Solutions. After signing for the package and opening it, I started towards the shop. It was part health food store and part alternative medicine. One would wrongfully assume it's a high-class food shop or hole-in-the-wall home décor shop with all the candles and bottled herbs. It was quiet, like always; typically only geriatrics and the "organic" passionate visited.

She looked rather bored in the silent shop, but brightened when I entered. Her bangs were pinned back to hide her ears, hair done up in a loose bun. "Hey, Bruce!"

"Hey." I approached the counter. It had taken her months of therapy, she confided, just to feel comfortable enough to man a cash register, but she'd adamantly taken the position as a type of self-help. The counter helped her feel safe and in control of the little space she had the authority to operate, and the customers gradually reintroduced her to people and conversations again. She pushed a large package forward, grinning widely.

"I didn't know if you'd like all of it, but it made me think of you."

"Sounds like you went antiquing again." I said playfully. Her mind couldn't help but want to break people and items down to their most basic components, or to know their stories. That unbreakable reflex often led her to antique shops where questionable pieces laid in wait for discovery. She nudged the box closer to me in response. I opened it; inside lay a bunch of crimped tissue paper, a deep, handle-less mug that looked African in nature, a wooden panther figurine, leather sandals with a small matching satchel, and a secondhand cookbook called _Taste of India_.

"You like traveling." she defended with an unashamed smile, "And you like learning. I know how that mind of yours works. It's a multi-cultural smorgasbord!"

"Indeed it is." I agreed, gently separating the pieces with my fingers. "At first glance I'd say a bit of Mexico, India, and Africa." tea bags of oolong and other favorites I came here for occupied the jar. I'd missed it at first glance because I'm used to seeing them in a box. "And here, too, I see."

"Do you like it?" she was clearly pleased with me finding her secret gift.

"Absolutely!"

"You didn't find all of it." she told me without skipping a beat. "Check under the tea."

"A coupon book?" it was small, made from sticky notes, and multi-colored. 'Good for one free hug' read the first one. The coupon book was a big step. She was still readjusting to people walking up behind her without the intent to do her harm. I was touched.

"Dr. Perkins calls them 'tokens of compromise'. By writing down the things that make me nervous and carrying them out I'll build up a resistance to the situation and reset the fear response."

"We'll use them, then." I tucked the booklet back into the tea bags. She blushed. Both hands returned to the book and clutched it nervously.

_Oh…right…_

"I, uh…I got you this." I thrust out the book. "Just read the back for now, if you would."

"It's slow, Bruce. I could probably read this whole thing without a customer coming in. People don't want this stuff on Valentine's Day. They want chocolate and wine." she rolled her eyes. Then she blinked, as if processing what I had said. "Oh…" she'd just begun to open the book when she shut it, locked eyes with me, and lowered the book near her stomach. "Is he giving you headaches again?"

"No." sometimes Hulk acted like a child. In the beginning he was very angry with her. He thought she was afraid of him, but not of me. It was something of a jealousy. Only later did he understand that someone else scared her and that she was scarred somewhat like me. "He's just excited for you to see _his_ present." I grinned.

"He got me a present?" her cheeks darkened enough to make a ruby envious.

"Of course." I found my gift very interesting and began to root through it again. We both knew we were awkward, and we let each other be awkward. It was comforting. "We're two different people, after all."

"I know. I'm just…I didn't think he would. I didn't get him anything!" she began to fret and pout.

"You're enough." I assured. "He knows you're cautious about people. It's enough that you're looking at us and talking since he scared you." I shrugged.

Her eyes softened. For a moment nothing was said. "It's enough that you stayed, Bruce." she admitted, putting the book down. "I didn't need this." she gestured to the book, "For the longest time…since the attack, I guess… I've just been wanting someone to see _me_ under the panic and the medicine and to not think I'm some kind of sick pill head, you know?"

Her nails dug into the countertop out of mild frustration. Out of pain emanating from the deepest and most protected parts of her. I placed my hand over hers. "I know. And you'll know something very important when you read the back of that book."

_He caught sight of her as lightning touched down. She was a dot in the storm. Her feet slipped on the damp path, struggling not to sink as she tore through the maze of trees and dirt. Shelter was necessary from such a monstrous storm. Unable to turn back from the town holding her haunting past, incapable of calling a cab, she headed towards the only visible structure in her vicinity._

_It was a decent-sized house embellished by gossip. No one ever came into or left that house, she'd heard. There was a cannibal in there, she'd heard. A monster lived there, she'd heard. Many more things had graced her ears about the place, and she hoped a knock would join them. _

_A brown eye peeked through the small crack in the door. "What's your name?" he asked immediately. She gave her name in a hurried rush, begging for a safe haven against nature's fury. Surprisingly, thankfully, he let her in. "My name is Bruce." he replied softly to her inquiry._

_Was Bruce just a victim of gossip or was he really a monster? Would the rain ever stop? Had it been a wise choice to enter the house? She could only wait and find out._

"Hey, this guy has your name! I wonder how common that is…" she flipped the book to and fro. "And these people on the cover look a lot like…"

"Us?" I finished, grinning shyly. She blushed.

"Did you—"

"I put my foot in my mouth around you. Or go off on a tangent. Or cover up what I'm trying to say with science. Or just…stop talking. So, because I couldn't do it, I paid someone to do it for me."

"You paid someone to write a love story?" she giggled, touched and amused. I blushed and gave a drawn out mumble of various pitches that failed to serve as a reply. I didn't have to admit it, I thought. The front page and summary was enough for her to get the gist. "It's lovely. Thank you, Bruce!"

"Can I use this coupon now?" I busied his hands during awkward times, not unlike her. I'd torn off the 'free hug' coupon.

"Sure." she very carefully and delicately drew me in a hug from behind the counter.

"Ready to go see your other surprise?" I asked into her soft and fragrant hair.

"Why not? No one's here, anyways." she quickly documented the cash in the register before closing up the shop. "I put it in your apartment. I was going to leave it at the tower, originally, but Tony is occupied."

"The apartment's fine. The apartment's comfortable."

I was used to hearing such things from her. Words like 'comfortable' were part of the coping process when she walked outside into a busy, noisy scene or tried to absorb a sudden change (which meant something unplanned and incontrollable). I was still getting used to the solid feeling of her warm, soft hand, but enjoyed it. Affections weren't usually given to a guy like me. She both loved and needed me; that was also foreign.

I was her lover, savior, and anchor. I was the first one she'd had a relationship with since the incident, or so she'd said. I'd proven that a love life was possible, she admitted late one intimate and quiet night. She was infinitely grateful for me; there wasn't a day she didn't let me know that.

It was nice he'd gone the extra mile, though, she thought. Very thoughtful. She wondered what The Other Guy considered a "surprise"; I could see it written all over her face. Her questions were answered with the turn of a key. At first she'd yelped and clung to me. I knew she would. Her eyes automatically deciphered a big _something_ lurking in her apartment…a something that shouldn't be there.

"It's okay. It's okay." I repeated, accepting her weight and gingerly moving us into the room. "Breathe. Just breathe." I flipped on the lights. "See? No danger."

Her wheezing tapered out as I gently unwound her body from mine. "A big Hulk toy?" she breathed with incredulity and light anger. "You got me a big toy?"

"He thinks it will keep you safe because it's him. And he thinks it will help you get used to him. Tony and I made some calls to a factory. You've got the only one in existence." I led her into the living room where a stuffed replica of Hulk sat in its slightly-slouchy, cotton-filled eight-foot glory.

She squeezed a large foot experimentally. It was malleable, soft, and completely in her control. "I like it." she decided.

"Good." I smiled. "I'm glad."

She pushed it over, watching it fall. "I think I can get rid of my bed." she giggled as she snuggled into the stomach. I laughed.

"Happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day to you, too." she smiled from atop a green stomach.

* * *

**3. Thor**

The Midgardian "mall" is a curious and fascinating place, even more so on this holiday of hearts and bright colors. It is filled with many goods that required no battle or siege to collect. Instead, as if to pay tribute to some unknown royalty, all of these wares are made and sent to this place. Unlike Asgard or another palace, however, these trinkets can be claimed by anyone. That concept was startling enough, but the most startling is the many stores crammed together – they are numerous but different, somewhat like the nine realms.

They are all colored in hearts, pink, red, and white. Red is considered one of my colors. The strong presence of it makes me smile, for it is as great as I am mighty. It is the only comforting and understandable about this Midgardian holiday. Asgardians freely show affection – or any emotion, for that matter – without need for a special day to be reserved.

It is confusing why they would need one day for only love at all. Love is precious and should be shown constantly, not just on one day. But things are different on Asgard. Love is constant because life is never assured. Midgardians love, but they do not love like Asgardians do. They are more worried about living and creating their own palace than loving.

But…my life on Asgard is different. I suppose I cannot rightfully compare and contrast the two, as I am royalty. My palace was present from birth. Midgardians have to pay and save for theirs. They do this by getting jobs, I learned. Their multiple bills serve as currency like our golden possessions and claimed items of other cultures.

Many Midgardians work at the mall for this purpose. There is only one I've come to see, however. She is a most interesting woman. Her job is to stand before a pink, girly, glittery domain and peddle their products in a gown fit for the elegant court or upper-class of my home world. If asked outright if she liked her attire, she'd give a dry answer and swear herself too "old" for such things.

But, deep inside, I know she enjoys it. She confounds me until I think of Sif. She is a girl that knows she is female, but hates to admit it. Her pursuits are more masculine because that is her nature and personality. She is not one of the soft women Fandral might try to court, but a warrior.

Even warriors like pampering. She and Sif are no exception. It simply takes ample patience and many dawns to see them to enjoy a feminine pleasure. The first time I saw her in a pair of "heels" as opposed to "sneakers" I could not help but stare at her feet the entire time I was with her. She then kicked me and lovingly grumbled that she would never wear them again.

One look at her face made it obvious, though. She liked the attention I lavished her with, and liked that I noticed. Our relationship was an interesting one, and is owed to a pink cardboard castle that used to make the entryway for her workplace. It once had large doors people could close for picture – "One big prop!" Friend Stark called it – and I jokingly assumed it as my territory to make the others laugh. Cardboard is not like the material in Asgard, I learned.

Somehow, perhaps by my motions, I had fallen through the fake doors. She was not happy with that. Neither was the child meant to take my place afterwards. Absolutely furious, and requested to hold off on her lunch break to help clean up the mess, she began to beat me with a piece of the cardboard door. It was laughable – a Midgardian trying to beat _me_?!

Laughable, but admirable. I'd met few Midgardians – and even fewer Midgardian women – who would risk taking on a man of my size. She had the ferocity of the man and the body of a woman. And a sharp wit like Friend Stark. I was intrigued.

She didn't fall for me with the same quickness of Asgardian women. She knew nothing of my princely status, and if she did, she did not care. It was both irritating and alluring. She was a challenge; I liked challenges. In the beginning I was more loving and persistent than she; as I peeled back the layers of her personality she began to see that I did not mean to ogle her as a fair maiden, but to woo her like a man does a woman.

That made our relationship easier and smoother. Our quiet and indulgent moments were only in privacy. She'd taught and outright _denied_ me in public. Bestowing upon her the heated and powerful lust and affections common to Asgard was frowned upon in Midgardian public. Want is want where I am from; want knows not the time or place. Want knows only want.

I wanted to see her on this Day of Love.

In public we talk or give each other well-meaning "love taps" that satisfy our playful and warrior inclinations. When she is working our talks are brief. She gives me secret smiles to let me know that she is aware of my presence. Today is no different. Her workplace is busy, bustling with little children, people with bags, and parents buying pink things tucked under their arms.

Today is only different in one aspect: I came in my armor. I am but a person of Midgard on a quest. It is acceptable to wear such attire when one does not know the outcome or obstacles in their journey. Her eyebrow raises at my appearance and she smirks interestedly as a little girl runs away into the store, using her guidance to buy a doll. "Greetings, princess." I give a mock bow and my best smile.

"We've been over this. I'm not a real princess. This is my costume."

"A dress does not make the princess, just dirt on a face does not make a beggar. It is the person that creates such labels." I say.

"I'm not a real princess." she replies flatly.

"Perhaps not to yourself." I smirk. She blushes the tiniest bit. The man in me is satisfied.

"What are you doing here, anyways?"

"I am choosing my Valentine's Day present!" I reply happily. She does not know the full extent of my Midgardian knowledge, nor the fact that we can peer into this realm from my home world. The Midgardian holidays and interesting ways have sometimes caught our eye.

"That's not the way it works." she's quick to point out, though in a gentle voice.

I scoop her up with a chuckle. "Then teach me of Midgard!" I hold her close to my chest and drop my mouth towards her ear. "_Privately_."

"You c-can't just take me from work!" she stutters, her cheeks aflame.

"I see no opponents! It is perfectly logical for a man to claim a woman if he so wishes, and I wish it! You are my present!"

No mortal will fight an Asgardian. Especially none of _these_ mortals because they know me as the commander of storms. My claim goes without problem because there are multiple princesses working in the store. Her boss gives me a small look that is ignored as I breeze away with my present.

Friend Stark was right in saying the mall was a place brimming with gifts suitable for anyone. I found something I admired.

* * *

**4. Clint**

She gazes at me in surprise. "I don't usually see _you_ here. Usually your friend with the glasses comes by."

"Bruce." I tell her. "He says it's stress-reducing."

"Massage is therapeutic. It's been around for ages." she informs.

"I need therapy." I grumble to myself, keeping my weight on my right foot. Natasha gave me a hell of a kick in close combat. I _hate_ close combat. It's nicer – and more convenient – to be up and away from the enemy. But SHIELD doesn't really _ask _the agent what they want; they more or less set out a to-do list and _expect_ agents to handle it. "It" can be anything from erasing an enemy to strengthening personal weaknesses.

The latter put me in this situation. I can handle normal blows, but I think that last one had something special in it. It felt like she'd gotten me with some Russian pinch technique! I'd seen it used on her previous victims when she was in an intimate position while her cover was blown. I'd come rushing in soon after to kill the approaching heat.

I'd jokingly dubbed the move her "Widow's Bite". Now I'd felt it. It really fucking sucked. If my leg wasn't in pain, it was locked up and stiff. Occasionally I wouldn't feel it at all, but then it would come alive with fire and tightness.

"So what can I do for you?"

"Get this cramp out of my leg." I requested as I withheld a groan. Natasha can _bite my ass_. I think this is her twisted way of getting me out of the tower on Valentine's Day. Or her sick sense of humor, you know, since it forces me – a man who prefers heights and distance – to seek help and the proximity of another. If not, well…it's because she knew. I'd be surprised if she didn't after being my partner for so long.

I may or may not have a thing for this masseuse.

At first I looked out for her because she was integral in keeping Banner calm. That occasional watching when I happened into this part of Manhattan somehow evolved into spotting her anytime I was out. Was it coincidence? Most definitely (because it'd be creepy if she just _happened_ to show up wherever I may be). But it didn't help.

She was everywhere. And she wore shiny things. My eyes were heavily stressed in my line of work, and they were sharp. There was no missing the glint of jewelry (even if it was only the tiny studs she preferred). I found myself looking out for her on her off days; she was even harder to spot then.

On her off days she had a bit more freedom with the jewelry and could wear something besides the business-like scrubs that kept cloth from interfering with the massage experience. It was on one of her off days that some mangy lowlife tried to snatch her purse. She had it draped protectively around her shoulder and torso, but that didn't stop him. He brandished a knife and tried to snatch it away from her, but she wouldn't let him. She wasn't the type of girl to take things lying down, even if the problem of petty theft could be solved by cancelling cards, changing locks, and replacing driver's licenses.

The tug-of-war ended when he punched her in the face and kept her from folding to the ground in a daze by gripping her necklace. He'd done so to cut the thinner section at the back. By the time she'd fully processed what happened, by the time the pain in her mouth had dulled, he'd run off with her purse and necklace. He didn't get far though. It was impossible for him to do so when I was tracking him by rooftop.

I returned to the street corner where he'd abandoned her with a bloody, busted lip a half-hour later. She jumped, not expecting me. Something in me liked that about her. There was a perverse pleasure to be had in scaring people. It was a natural amusement I found after so many years of being above others and isolated for the sake of my job.

"Here." I handed her the purse, watching through a pair of sunglasses. She dabbed at her lip with a civilian-donated napkin and sighed.

"Thanks." she grumbled, looking up at me. A cut bled lightly on her collarbone, staining the floral pattern of her shirt. She faced the ground again, still appearing to collect herself. Her eyes met mine as she squinted.

"Aren't you that one guy?" it was the vaguest and most laughable question I'd ever been asked. She gave me a sour look as a grin twisted my lips. "I _know _what I'm talking about!" she snorted, "You work with that other client I have. The one with the stress problems."

"Sounds like me." I shrugged. I wasn't the only guy working with Bruce, after all.

"No, I mean the one that sits on the buildings. You stay on the adjacent one after he comes in. All the time, actually. Sometimes I can hardly see you." she laughs.

My shock is cleverly hidden, as I was trained to do. She's partially correct. The others and I devised a sort of "buddy system" where Bruce is concerned. We're his buddy. We take out, diffuse, or blot out anything that might set him off before it has a chance to.

Since I prefer high places and am used to sitting quietly and attentively for hours on end, I'm nominated to watch over the massage building while he's in there. I also come to look out for her. She's kind of one of us. Not really, but we associate with her enough for it to be true. It's not necessary since Banner's in there, but I like looking at things.

Especially shiny things, like the earrings in her ears. Like the ones she's wearing now. "What made you notice me?"

"Your hair." she grinned.

"Hm." I mumble thoughtfully. Usually people notice my eyes first. The ones who get close enough to me do, anyways. "Are you going to be okay?" I shift the subject away from me; it's not comfortable.

"Yeah. I'll live. Just regaining my senses, I guess." she stands up on her own. "Come see me if you ever need a massage." she pats my arm once before walking away.

"I'm redeeming that offer." I say as I withdraw from memories of that day. She nods, amused that I still remember. It's been almost a year since it happened.

"Through the clothes or without?" she asks.

"Through."

"Oils, or no?"

"None. Just get the kink out." I lay on my side on the padded table, presenting my injured leg. Silence lapses as she begins to work physical magic and kneads my leg. There's kneading, rolling, pressing, and smoothing. It feels good. I can't really remember the last time I've had something luxurious like this.

"So how's your Valentine's Day going? You busy?"

"Slammed. Couples massages." she replies.

"Then how'd I manage to snag you?"

"I saw you coming. And there are others working today. They can have the surplus of large men with hairy backs. It's fine with me." she mumbles. I take it she's had some less than charming customers today. I chuckle. "How's yours?" she inquires.

"Not bad. Was training with a friend and got done-in by a freaky pinch move." I revealed casually. She giggled.

"Well aren't _you _having a happy Valentine's Day?"

"I am now." I can feel my leg start to loosen up. She puts pressure on it, but it's not burning. Walking from the tower had it burning and cramping every step of the way! Her technique is _way _better than Natasha's. "Did any of your customers tell you thank you? This feels good…" I should've lied and said I'm still in pain. Then she wouldn't stop until I'm healed.

"Nope. I just get directions or an earful on how wonderful the person is who gave them their certificate."

"Sucks." I say bluntly. She hums in light agreement. "Well…happy Valentine's Day."

"Happy Valentine's Day." she repeats happily.

* * *

**5. Steve**

_Today only, couples discount!_

_Chocolate heart lollipops - $1!_

_Free cookie with ANY meal!_

I had a feeling the diner would be open. It was a bit old-fashioned, and smaller compared to the other restaurants I'd been introduced to, but was by far the most comfortable. It had a checkered floor, little island of ice cream flavors, and numerous padded booths and glossy tables. The black, white, and red colors were pleasantly familiar. Pictures of fifties celebrities and knickknacks from the time adorned the walls.

A jukebox playing love songs sat in the corner by the door I'd just entered. It was a light day in the restaurant, I observed. Four couples were sprinkled unevenly around me, some in booths and some in tables. I sat – feeling somewhat awkward and alone – at a table near the back of the restaurant. "Hey, big guy! Didn't think I'd be seeing you so soon! How's life?" the waitress, my usual attendant, asked in genuine curiosity with one hand on her hip and the other at her side.

"H-how?" I always found myself off guard around her. She had a sweet smile. And big, bright eyes that could stop a man's heart. "It—it's good. It's life. I'm alive." I shrugged.

"And hungry too, right?" she teased good-naturedly. My metabolism caused me to eat _very_ well. She didn't know I was a super soldier; if she did it wasn't because _I'd_ told her. I blushed. "I'm just playing with you, you know that." she pushed gently on my shoulder. "So…the usual?"

"Yep."

"And we're doing it in the 'course' fashion?"

"Please."

"I'll be right out with your onion rings and chili cheese fries." she smiles. I've been here so much that she knows my order. Honestly, I think she remembers it so well because it's a lot of food. "No one's ordered like that before!" she marveled, "Not one person, anyways!"

She drops off a vanilla milkshake that keeps me company. The smell of onion rings soon perfumes the diner. My mouth begins to water as she sets the cardboard container of onion rings and chili cheese fries before me. Waking up seventy years in the future left me a lot of new foods to try. I felt like I'd finally found a place that could keep up with my appetite.

Well…better than what army rations in the forties could, anyways.

That freedom and knowledge made me a bit gluttonous, but I didn't care. My metabolism could handle it. And, I reasoned, I'd been asleep for seventy years! I'd missed a lot – and I mean _a lot_ – so what harm was there in discovery through eating? Not much…not with the way I trained!

I tore the onion rings into bits – onion crumbles, I called them – and sprinkled them onto the fries. It was easier to eat them this way. They typically lodged in the chili or became glued to the freshly melted and hot cheese. Starting off with unhealthier foods meant I had to make up for it; while I ate the fries and onion rings the cooks put together a salad and three wraps: buffalo, turkey, and chipotle.

She'd breeze by dutifully in her red skirt, white apron, and white top, filling my drink as she did so. My lack of chewing was always taken as a sign that I was out of drink. It wasn't so. My mouth just couldn't move when she walked by. _I _couldn't move!

She had an attractive and hypnotizing sway to her walk. I ordered the salads to maintain my healthy eating habits. The fact that I'd rather have something from a salad stuck between my teeth instead of strings of onion or cheese also had something to do with it. Salad would mask my onion breath, too, I thought. Hoped.

I don't know _why _I thought she'd come over and just make conversation. It never happened (probably because she was working and earning her paycheck). She always approached me with "Is everything alright?" or "Do you need a refill?"

It was never anything else. One day, I told myself, I'd make a longer conversation with that woman. One day I'd get a _real_ chance to talk with her. Maybe I'd run into her at the store. Maybe I'd invite her out.

The Little Steve in me cringed; that was still kind of intimidating, even seventy years in the future. _It'd be easier if I could just save her life and have her fall madly in love with me, _I thought somewhat dryly as she presented the wraps and salad. I bit into the chipotle wrap to burn my tongue and keep it from blurting out anything stupid on this day of confessions and romance. A triple-decker burger with loaded toppings – their crowning culinary achievement – usually followed. A small sundae always capped my visit to the diner, and today was no different.

Not on my end, anyways.

My sundae was partnered with a pale cookie covered in pink sprinkles. _Partnered! _I snorted at my word choice. Food wasn't people! And yet, the food was together. The food was _with_ someone.

It's a shame to realize such a thing on Valentine's Day, especially when one is alone. I stared at the cookie, bemused. "It's a Valentine's Day thing," she explained.

"Oh." I blushed slightly. Right. Just for Valentine's Day. Not necessarily "me", per se. The sign said with ANY meal, meaning for ANYBODY.

My thoughts drifted as I ate my sundae. On the one hand, I wanted to linger and see if a chance for conversation presented itself. On the other, I didn't. I was surrounded by couples and obviously the sore thumb in the picture. _My nerves would get the best of me anyways_, I thought, _because they always do_.

But it was un-American to give up so easily! A soldier doesn't back down! I'd merely have to tackle this situation from a different angle! My spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, my ideas as nonexistent as the ice cream. I frowned.

She laid down a chocolate heart lollipop with the bill.

"Those cost a dollar. I didn't order one of those." I told her, sliding the item back.

"I know." she grinned at me. "It's on the house. From me to you, actually."

"R-Really?"

"Yep. Happy Valentine's Day, Steve!"

"H-Happy Val-Valentine's Day." I stuttered back.


End file.
